


I Go Back to...

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Time Marches On [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Vessels, Aviophobia, Episode: s01e04 Phantom Traveler, Gen, Inspired by Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:57:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1368040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What, so you’re some kinda time traveler sent to creep on me?”</p><p>“I’m not ‘creeping’ on you. I’m merely here to watch over you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Go Back to...

As far as he knew, the demon had been successfully exorcised. That was it –case open and shut. They were on the ground, Sammy was alive, _he_ was alive; those were the things that mattered, right? No more plane crashes, no more Hell-spawn possessing people in midair, nothing. Just the soft, safe, unmoving ground below his feet.

Which apparently _wouldn't_ be for much longer. The original intention to get back to his own vehicle had been thrown to the wayside and trampled on by the terminal staff. No rental cars were available at that time of night – _just_ his luck. Best in the _world_ , in fact. And not only would they be unable to drive back to their original destination, they would have to _fly_. Getting on _another_ one of those things that had just tried to kill him not an hour before.

Well, the _plane_ hadn’t tried to do him in, but that was beside the point.

The point _was_ , they were flying back on the red eye and he couldn't get his heart to stop threatening to burst from his chest. All logical reasoning told him that the return trip wouldn't be _nearly_ as eventful. His brain was saying otherwise, playing out every impossible scenario before his eyes in real time. Splashing water on his face didn't help. Standing before the small bathroom mirror, he noted the tension in his features, the shaking of his hands on the porcelain sink.

_Just one more, you can do this. You’re not gonna die here._

Out in the terminal amongst the lessening crowd, Sam stood, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Their already long day was about to get longer. “There’s a flight in thirty minutes,” Sam started off, much to Dean’s dismay. “You sure you wanna do this?”

“Let’s just get it over with,” was his sole reply. With that, he headed towards an empty row of seats nearest the loading bay windows, Sam struggling to make it through a sudden rush of passengers towards the ticket counters. They’d gone through this before, multiple times before he puked his anxiety into the first toilet he could find. It did nothing to relieve his shot nerves.

Nearby, he could hear the occasional shutter of the terminal doors opening, accompanied by them jostling closed seconds after. With that, rushes of cold air burst in, faint tendrils brushing against his skin to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Nothing was of comfort; he let out a shaking breath. _Just a few more hours_.

Elbows on his knees, he carded his hands through the hair at the back of his head, eyes tracing the lines in the tiling. _Anything_ to take his mind away from where his body resided. Whatever flashes of sanctity his mind normally concocted in moments of stress ended up in flames, each individual thought sending shivers down his spine. Wasn't this how people had heart attacks? Having their heart rhythm bordering dangerous for hours on end? Even _that_ sounded more appealing than taking off again.

The noise of the terminal doors opening masked what he could have _sworn_ sounded like a bird flying in his general vicinity. Instead, he found himself sitting two empty seats over from a young man, _maybe_ eighteen at best, who looked like he had dropped out of some tattoo enthusiasts wet dream. Every inch of visible skin was dyed in vast arrays of colors, reddened flames licking the end of the sleeve at his wrists, more serene hues fading to white near his shoulders. Two sets of spider bites adorned chapped lips, septum hanging from his nose, at least seven additional studs and hoops winding their way up both ears… And to top of it off, jet black, lopsided hair covered the bluest eyes he had _ever_ had the chance to see, eyes that stared nearly _through_ him, to his very soul.

 _Something_ about him was off. The staring thing was his first clue. “Are you nervous?”

That, and that voice should _not_ have come out of someone so young-looking. “…About what?”

“Your flight.”

Oh, right. He was in an airport. Somehow he had forgotten that detail. “I don’t like flying.” He cleared his throat; like _that_ wasn't obvious enough.

The boy was _still_ staring at him, head tilted at an odd angle. A small, _barely_ noticeable smile tilted the corner of his lips. “Did you know that more people die from shark attacks every year than in plane crashes?”

Dean shook his head –great, now he was thinking about crashing into the _ocean_. Where was the nearest body of water, anyway? Were there sharks? “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

“Is it working?”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he answered, “No.”

That earned no response from the boy, whom had now taken up staring across the room at the blue-backed timetable on the opposite wall, hands clasped together in his lap. At least it was quiet now. Still, he felt uneasy. Cold was seeping further into his skin, brushing against his neck almost in a caress. In some way, it eased the ache in his chest; he didn't question it. “I’m aware of your predicament.”

But he _did_ question that. Green eyes shot over to observe the stranger. Neither moved. “…What are you talking about?”

“You’re trying to locate your father, correct?”

He had half the mind to reach for his gun, only to remember they were back in the trunk of the Impala. Exposure –some _random_ passerby knew something vital about him, and he had _no_ manner of protecting himself. What was he supposed to do? After all, what if it was the _demon_ coming back for revenge? All ‘Christo’ did was earn him a cocked eyebrow.

“You don’t have to worry. You’ll be in contact with him soon enough.” He turned away from the timetable to lock their gazes again. He lost his awareness in the sight of cobalt irises. Something about them calmed his heart – it was _terrifying_.

And the fact he wasn't _doing_ anything should have sent up every red flag in existence. But it didn't –he just sat there, _staring_ at the boy with a sense of uneasy recollection. A voice whispered that he _knew_ him. From where, he couldn't tell. With that thought, he asked the obvious – “Who are you?”

“You’ll know in time.”

Well _that_ just solved everything now, didn't it? “ _No_ , I kinda need to know _now_.”

No movement. “I can't say.”

“Okay, can you tell me _why_ you’re here?”

“Today was a stressful day for you. There are more to come in the future. I’m here to offer solace.”

Dean choked back a laugh, the end result forming an unpleasant cough. Maybe he should have rinsed his mouth out. “And what would _you_ know about today? What, you been following me around like some kinda gnat?”

“Not necessarily.” He sat back in the plastic chair, head lolled back; Dean half expected him to be counting the dots on the ceiling. “I’d like to not impede you as much as I can.”

“Well, you’re kinda impeding me n—.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, Dean.” _What_. “I’m not preventing you from doing anything. You could join your brother and I would do nothing to stop you.”

Where were his weapons when he _needed_ them? He narrowed his gaze. “How do you know my name?”

“I know everything about you. Rather, you from another time. Another place.”

That wasn't helping. “What, so you’re some kinda time traveler sent to creep on me?”

Again, the breeze swept across him, this time nearly pinning him in place with sudden warmth. Unconsciously he learned into it. He knew this – he’d felt this before. “I’m not ‘creeping’ on you. I’m merely here to watch over you.” A pause. “What’s the date?”

 _Uh_. “December fifth.”

“Year?”

“2005…”

He could have _sworn_ he heard ‘there’s still time.’ Whatever it was was lost in the incessant noises of the nearby door. Nobody had even walked _in_. “What d’you mean, ‘watch over me?’”

“In due time.” He swore if he heard that _one more time_ … “Our destined encounter isn’t for another few years. You have great strides to make before that happens, though. I’m not to interfere.”

“Like _what_?” he nearly barked. As intriguing as this entire conversation was, he couldn't help but feel on edge. After the last few days he had had, it was completely understandable. “What do I have to do?”

“…You’re going to do things that you wouldn't imagine yourself being capable of,” he began, shifting to face him at least halfway. “You’re going to do things out of desperation to save those you love. You’re going to suffer in ways you could never imagine. You're going to want to run despite your best instincts, you’re going to want to _die_. And you’ll overcome everything thrown in your path, because that’s who you are.” He swallowed hard at the feeling of the stranger touching black-painted nails against the top of his hand, boney fingers covering this own. “You have yet to grasp your full potential.”

“…And what if I don't want to?” his voice cracked in reply. “What if I don’t want any of that? What if I—I just wanna find my _dad_ , man. I don’t wanna do any of that other stuff!”

“But you have to.” The bizarre depth of his voice had gone soft, eyes boring holes into his own. No part of it could bring him to look away. “You’ll become a great man, Dean Winchester, despite what the world has in store for you. I’ll be beside you every step of the way. I’ll always come when you need me. And I’ll never leave you.”

The sound of those words warmed his heart, unexplainable cold still tickling his ear. He swiped at the sensation; the boy smiled, genuine. Within a blink, he had retrieved his hand and moved to stand before him. Dean watched as he placed two fingers to his forehead; at once, the tension bled from every limb, every neuron in his brain until numbness was nearly an issue. “Until we meet again.”

Just as fast as he had appeared, the nameless boy vanished in that same familiar flutter of wings he could have _sworn_ he had heard before. Somewhere in the past. A black feather rested near his shoe. He chose to ignore it.

“Who was that?” His head shot up abruptly; Sam stood at his side, holding out a white ticket.

He took the slip of paper, observing the inky words with a new sense of calm. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all. “Who was who?”

“You were talking to someone. They have anything interesting to say?”

Wait, he had been talking to someone? Hadn’t he just sat down? “…I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, man.” It was the truth –the nagging, itching truth that at the same time unsettled his mind. “We ready to go?”

Sam shot him a look and opted to ignore whatever he had –or had not—seen. Probably chalked it up to a hallucination. “Uh, yeah. Take off is in twenty.”

With that, Dean shrugged and moved to stand, Sam already heading in the direction of their gate. Beneath his feet, the feather sat resolute on the ground; he didn't remember how it got there, or _why_ he was compelled to pick it up. Still, he did so, shoving the downy object into his jacket pocket and holding onto it like a lifeline.

He didn't say a word until they touched down.

**Author's Note:**

> Two factors went into writing this. One, the original concept was from a short story I wrote when I was in high school. I originally intended to send this (in a modified version) to my university's literary magazine for the spring, but I didn't have time to submit it in the end. (Seriously, who puts a due date in the middle of midterm week?)
> 
> Two, you should totally read Sharon Old's poem "I Go Back to May 1937," as I'll credit that for inspiration to actually get this done.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
